Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: You can take the man out of the psychiatric hospital, but you can't take the psychiatric hospital out of the man. Will recovers from Baltimore after his release. Post-Savoureux.

Author's Notes: I blocked off last Saturday to write. Friday night, my computer crashed and burned. I spent Saturday shopping for a new one, Sunday back at work, and then this week with my fingers crossed hoping my new PC would arrive.

My fiance insisted I use his computer today to write fanfiction. Those were actually his exact words. I've been on here non-stop since last night. And that is how I know our love is real.

Readers, I very much appreciate your patience. This chapter covers a lot of ground, because I am looking forward to the happy finish. I'm thinking there's two more chapters to go, possibly an epilogue. Thank you so much for your kind readership! Less than two months until the premiere!


"(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all

Enacted on this same divan or bed;

I who have sat by Thebes below the wall

And walked among the lowest of the dead.)

Bestows one final patronizing kiss,

And gropes his way, finds the stairs unlit…"

~The Wasteland (III 243-248)


Chapter Twenty-Nine: Slash and Burn

Anger is a pathetically small word. Hate: doubly so. Will is an inferno. He is every circle of hell, including the ones Hannibal helped invent. Grief and fury spill out of him in equal measure. The fact that his rage is the doctor's design fails to deter him from sinking straight into the darkest recesses of his imagination. Hell is a welcome companion, the only friend Will has left. Until he finds Hannibal, of course, and then Will intends to show the good doctor exactly what hell looks like.

The evening unravels, and Will follows the thread back, past the mess of fur and blood, through the trees. He stalks the narrow pathway of the agent's spine, rising like a shiver into the crown of her head. She hears him – impressive – but doesn't turn before he snakes an arm around her chest. Will then captures her cry with the palm of one hand and drives a knife into the soft flesh of her bicep with the other.

Her training takes over, but Will must know exactly where to stand because she doesn't reach him. He responds by jerking the blade deeper, savouring every scream he pulls from her unwilling throat. The sound of her cries struggle to escape her covered mouth and end up reverberating along Will's arm in a happy tingle. His blade taps against bone, unleashing a satisfying crescendo before the agent sags against him. The only sign she's still alive is the way her muscles twitch as Will continues to saw her arm.

(He smells her, because Hannibal would smell her. She is damp earth, rain, fear, and hate. Or maybe that's just Will.)

Logic asserts itself quietly into the scene. Will can't cut her arm off (though not for lack of trying), and he doesn't want to think about the bloodshed that comes next, so he abandons the fantasy. Light and sound greet him in a rush. Crime scenes at night are a disorienting juxtaposition swirl of red and white beams from the cruisers and ambulance. A small army of agents are combing their way through the trees, but the one he wants to speak to is slumped in the back of the ambulance. She's less angry than Will is but not by much.

"Why did he stop?" he asks.

The agent can't respond immediately. She's too busy screaming from the paramedic inflating a tourniquet around her mangled arm. "I cut him!" she almost pukes and has to tug her hair to pull herself together. "I cut him…he took my knife."

"Do you have to do this now?" the paramedic asks angrily.

Will's brain has trouble integrating the information with his vision, so he asks for clarification, "You cut him or you stabbed him?"

The agent struggles to breathe. She swipes her tears away, trying to embody an FBI agent even if she doesn't feel like one. "I stabbed him. He got away."

"He wasn't expecting you to stab him," Will mutters, fantasy unfolding. No wonder the agent escaped with her arm. "He wasn't expecting the dogs, but he really wasn't expecting you to stab him."

"Why the hell not?" the agent hisses.

"Because of who he wanted you to think he was. Jack didn't give you permission to use brutal force on me."

As if he is a child: "I knew it wasn't you."

"How?" Jack sends shockwaves through the paramedic. The agent straightens. Only Will is immune. Fury inoculates him against Crawford's presence. He's finally able to stand his ground against the older man's stormy disposition. Jack doesn't notice: he's making a point of not looking at Will. "How do you know it wasn't him?"
The agent knows her cue. She sounds like herself even as her skin continues to gray, "Too short. Too slight. No stabbed."

Jack's still looking at Will. "You're sure you stabbed him."

"I'm sure."

"You thought Hannibal Lecter was the Ripper this afternoon," Jack says to Will in the closest approximation of gently that his voice can achieve. He doesn't know what tragedy deserves his focus. The nearest and dearest is the reminder of Miriam Lass slumped less than five feet from him. "Zeller just pulled your fillet knife from one of the dogs."

"It'll have my prints on it," Will replies. He lets his imagination go and clings to the present, to the wall he's built between himself and the world. Fury numbs him, protects him, from the carnage burned into his brain. "Where are the dogs, the…the living dogs?"

"With Alana in the house. Animal control is taking the other two," Jack remembers how to be a human. "I'm sorry."

Will has just enough hate left in him to hate having to say this: "I didn't do it." His face twists in anticipation of tears, but he can't cry. Sadness just feeds the fire inside him.

Jack apologizes, "I know." He just needed to be sure. The wound on his agent cuts too close to home.

The paramedic finishes with the agent's arm. "She needs to get to a hospital."

"I'll go with her."

The words are out of Will's mouth before he has a plan. Anger does wonders for the imagination though: fever quickens his visions but fury strengthens all the supports. At long last, Will sees the ending, sees his escape.

Jack almost starts to yell: almost. He stops himself in the nick of time, the blood on Will's hands reminding him of all the blood on his own. "You're not leaving my sight," Jack says as sternly as he can without hurting Will further. "I'm arranging for you-"

Will doesn't give him the chance to finish. He trumps whatever Jack might say with, "Lampman's at the hospital."

Game. Set. Match. Mentions of Lampman shatter whatever remains of Jack's reserves. He can't say no without hurting Will, and Jack knows he's already done enough damage. "You'll have an agent on you the entire time."

Using her feels cheap, but Will watches his conscience burn. His solid constitution, once iron, blazes like tissue paper. Lying is too easy. Looking broken feels natural. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jack doesn't question the performance for a second; he's feeling pretty broken tonight too. "You don't mind an extra couple minutes on the trip?"

The agent still manages a shrug, "Long as I get to keep my arm, sir."

The older agent tilts his head towards the cab, "Get in."


Will measures his new escort's capabilities with the fringes of his vision. Like Pollard, the agent is clean cut, by-the-book, and eager to please. He doesn't know how to pick pockets or trail targets in silence. Will can lose him easily in the hospital. Might even be able to disarm him, too. Guns make acquiring a vehicle much easier.

He's too busy plotting his escape to notice that Agent Quick-Draw's got her eyes on him. Her attempts to look imposing are greatly hindered by the straps holding her to the gurney. "Whatever you're thinking, don't," she tells him.

Will doesn't balk at her menace; he steals her violence away, infusing every syllable with threat. Mostly for Hannibal, but he doesn't mind letting the agents know what they have to look forward to if they try to stop him. "I'm not thinking anything."

"Crawford's going to have that place on lockdown."

"You're right," he doesn't have the patience for banter and goes straight for the kill. "Way easier to escape from an ambulance." (That would solve his transportation problem.) "And I'm not even handcuffed this time."

His escort stiffens; the paramedic shudders. Will fires a glare at the injured agent's shoulder and promptly retreats inside himself. Jack won't make his escape so easy this time. There's probably a bureau vehicle trailing them just waiting for him to snap.

The agent on the gurney says something. Will wouldn't have noticed, but her tone has softened. She's given up on banter too. "About your dogs," she adds, the words finally reaching Will's overheated brain. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't want to think about the dogs. They were barely dogs by the time he reached them; Hannibal saw to that. There are forts inside him, vacant and cold, that the fire doesn't reach, places where the dogs reside with all their innate goodness. Places Will doesn't want to remember because they'll stay his hand. He cannot be a good person and enact bloody vengeance. Hannibal has to know pain before the night is through.

Will rebukes her, "They weren't a part of your purview, agent."

"You are," she stares at the roof of the ambulance now. "And they were yours, so…"

The silence of the ambulance quells the inferno. What started as an attempt to disarm him has become a genuine apology. The agent really wishes she could have saved the dogs, and she hates herself for not doing so in the forest.

Will doesn't even try to blame her. He doesn't want her remorse. Her hostility is much more useful. Not to mention: "Where did you say you stabbed him?"

She's circling the drain in terms of consciousness, but the agent's instincts are still intact. "I didn't," she abandons her guilt. "Not to you."

"Afraid I'll finish the job?"

"Certain of it. Just not on the right person."

"Better give me a clue," Will casts a meaningful glance in his escort's direction, "or I'll have to assume it's anyone."

She calls his bluff, saying nothing, resuming her hard stare of the ceiling. Nevertheless, Will still feels watched.

The escort shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "He's still got his eyes on me, Stewart."

The agent, Stewart, grants herself one bitter smirk before feeling guilty again. She lets her eyes close, "No, he doesn't."

She's right: Will only has eyes for the blank antlered man in his mind's eye. He doesn't need to know where she cut him. Knowing that Hannibal is bleeding is enough. For now.


It's just as well that Will didn't take the ambulance by force. Once the flood of hospital personnel whisk Stewart away, Will emerges from the cab to discover a black SUV parked nearby. Two more agents trail from a respectable distance as Will and his frazzled escort make their way to the elevator.

Once disembarked, Will oscillates between leading and following, testing the advantages of both positions. The agent has some idea of where they're going but not enough to claim the lead. As a result, Will is allowed to play on the fringes of the agent's vision. He bides his time, feigning innocence, until a crowd of staff, patients, and visitors provides cover. Will drifts easily into the flow of traffic, turns, and very calmly begins walking in the opposite direction.

(The agent's gun isn't worth the risk of getting caught. Besides, there are plenty of weapons at Hannibal's house.)

Will ducks into a room as his additional handlers pass by, oblivious to his disappearance. He is quick to round the corner at the end of the hall as controlled panic erupts from behind. Footsteps charge in his wake. Will avoids the stairs and ducks into the entrance of another wing. The heavy, windowless doors shield him from one's of the agent's sight as they head for the stairs. He waits for them to emerge, barking orders into a cell phone, before risking the stairs once more.

He almost takes a patient with him into the landing from how carelessly he's moving. Will has to catch both her and her IV stand to keep them from falling. He takes his leave the second she's more or less upright, but before the door can swing shut, realizes his error and has to turn around.

Lampman braces herself against the door. "Will," she says politely. "What a pleasant surprise."

The agents converge on his position. Lampman looks to him, nonplussed, and smiles softly. "Were you looking for me?"

Will recognizes a way out when he sees one. "You weren't in your room," he watches as the agents begin to stand down.

"I was taking a walk. My physiotherapist insists on it. I'm supposed to make one more lap, but I would appreciate an excuse to return to the room early," Lampman tilts her head imperceptibly towards the hall…and the agents behind her. "Would you mind escorting me?"

Again, Will can't refuse her offer. He nods in acquiescence and retreats from the stairwell. Lampman takes him by the arm in what he first assumes is an extension of her ruse. Now that he's not running, Will sees the toll her wounds have taken on her. She really does need the support.

The agents hover. They are all the more attentive after having been outsmarted once. One by one, Will's opportunities to get out flicker and die. Lampman's room is still under guard. Soon, he'll have five trained agents watching his every move, reporting his actions back to Jack.

(He really ought to have stolen the ambulance.)


"You weren't surprised to see me," Will comments once the door is safely closed behind them.

Lampman releases his arm from her grasp. Her strength seems to be returning now that she's back in her room. "Agent Crawford called," Lampman admits. "He was concerned you were going to escape."

"Are you concerned about me escaping?"

"I'm concerned about you."

"I'm fine," Will curses. He tries to say more, but the words turn to ash in his mouth. He finds himself telling the truth, as he is so wont to do in her presence. "Actually, I'm not fine. I'm…I'm…"

Talking about the hatred will purge it, and Will doesn't want to lose the edge he's developing. The fire feels right. After all this time, after all that's gone wrong, he deserves to hate Hannibal. He's earned the right to hate Hannibal to death. "Jack told you," he heaves. "You already know why I'm here."

Lampman doesn't prompt him along. She takes the time to find a comfortable position on the bed and then levels a stare at Will that could cut glass. When Will still hasn't started speaking, Lampman dares to draw him out. "Where are you going?" she asks him.

"You already know where I'm going."

Her lips fold into a straight line. No more games then. "I'm very sorry about your dogs, Will."

Hatred tears so easily. Will tries to hold onto it, but the tighter his grasp, the more brittle his emotions become. One minute he is a raging inferno; the next, he is stormy seas. His hearts sinks through dark water into oblivion. Of course, the dogs are dead. Hannibal butchered them. He decorated the forest with their entrails. Partly to make Jack think Will had lost his mind, partly because the stubborn agent refused to lose her arm, and partly because Hannibal Lecter is evil, pure and simple.

"When I was first committed, I didn't believe they'd actually leave me there," Will confesses. "Not at Baltimore. Not with Chilton. I didn't believe that I would be convicted. I was so sure they would find the evidence to get me out. I didn't even care if the evidence was against him. I just needed to be believed again.

"Now, they have Abigail Hobbs. Another FBI agent almost died tonight. Two of my dogs were torn to pieces. And the only reason Hannibal Lecter would get contacted is as a sympathetic ear to his former protégé or his best friend for life, Jack Crawford."

Will heaves a shuddering breath. He forces himself to keep going. "They're never going to let me out of Baltimore."

Lampman doesn't have to say a word. She can't be honest and comforting at the same time in this case. "What evidence would you need against Hannibal Lecter?" she asks.

He laughs and weeps at the same time. "Something impossible."

"Like the fact that he is the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"Hannibal Lecter isn't the Chesapeake Ripper. He is curious about the Ripper," Will sighs. "He's curious about everything."

"He kills out of curiosity. Does he take souvenirs for the same reason?"

"No, no, he takes souvenirs to mask the intention of his crimes. Cassie Boyle's lungs made Jack think he was the Minnesota Shrike. The flesh from Abigail Hobbs's back made Jack think he was the copycat."

Lampman's face curls in mild disgust. "The oysters…"

Will's imagination flares to life. "What did you say?"

"The lower back, just above the thighs, is the tenderest cut from fowl. They're called the oysters. You were talking about the Ripper and I…"

Will doesn't hear the rest of what she has to say. He's too busy vomiting.


Happy reading!